Progression
by trollnexus
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy is finally going to become the protagonist of his own life. Somehow. Even though he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, and his only help is a series of mysterious notes from the Milton Bradley Company.


**Title: **Progression

**Disclaimer:** J. K. Rowling owns these characters and the world in which they live. I'm just borrowing them. And I make no money off of this. Also, I do not own the Milton Bradley Company, and therefore I do not own the Game of Life. Hell, I don't even have that board game with me. My friend has it. :(

**Pairings:** None at the moment, but I am hoping to somehow morph this into a Draco/Harry along the way. I shall update this description line once pairings show up.

**Rating:** M eventually. I do like me my M-rated scenes. Didn't want to do it for the first chapter, though.

**Warnings:** Me trying to be meta, I guess. And really pushing the fourth wall. any other warnings, I don't know yet. Depends where the prompts take me. Let that be your warning.

**Summary:** After the war, Draco Malfoy is finally going to become the protagonist of his own life. Somehow. Even though he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, and his only help is a series of mysterious notes from the Milton Bradley Company.

**Author's Note: **This is my entry for cuz-CM's-awesome's The Game of Life Challenge. I chose my character to be Draco Malfoy, so the story will obviously centre around him. For every chapter, I roll a number and get a prompt from the challenge master, and this will determine the direction in which this story will go. I have a lot of leeway, though, since psh, one- or two-worded prompts? They can't control me! I will do whatever I want!

I haven't been feeling very humourous this week, since my family is driving me insane, so this first chapter probably isn't very funny. And I haven't even touched my usual story, A Series of Misunderstandings, because I know I will just fuck it up in this current state of mind, so you're welcome. I want a good chapter, you know? It ain't happening right now. Thankfully, I shall be flying to another location soon, _away_ from those crazy people I call my parents, and then I will have some peace to write.

I feel something about this story, though. I feel like it can go places. I eagerly await the next prompt.

* * *

_Chapter One—Charlie's Compulsion_

Draco Malfoy lay in his bed at the Manor, sighing at the ceiling.

He had escaped imprisonment due to his and his parents' last-minute change in allegiance in the Battle of Hogwarts, and he had been allowed to finish his education.

The rest of his life waited for him to get out of bed and make the first step towards his future.

Well, of course, life always did that, but today he felt it more prominently than ever. It was as if he had spent the beginning years of his life wearing a green-and-silver costume, traipsing around, punching Gryffindor gits, and shouting lines "My father will hear about this!" for someone else's benefit. He had never felt like the protagonist in his own narrative, because every action he performed would affect someone else, and he felt like everyone was saying, "Oh, Draco, do this because Potter needs to die!" or, "Draco, you can't do that or else Potter will die!"

Well, fuck Potter! Speccy git! Always getting all the attention, always getting all the concern. The insufferable bastard had been all he was allowed to think about for the past decade or so; it was almost like he ceased to exist whenever the prat was not concerned.

Today felt different, however. Today, he felt his heart beat differently, more presently—his whole chest seemed to vibrate with the force of his vitality. He did not know why this was so—as far as he was concerned, the sun had risen outside his window in the same fashion it always had. Yet he knew. He knew today was the start of the rest of his life.

There was a tap on his window. He leapt out of bed with a triumphant shout, landing perfectly on his firm-yet-delicate feet and throwing his long, slender arms into the air. He _knew_ it. This was the day.

He made his way over to the window, marvelling in the softness of the carpet beneath his bare feet. His bedroom had always been fitted with this carpet, but he had never really _felt_ it before. Merlin, it was nice to live in a manor, regardless of all the spell damage it had taken during the Dark Lord's stay. At least the Dark Lord never soiled his carpets.

A tawny owl was at the window, insistently tapping on the glass with its beak, a small scroll of parchment tied to its leg. He undid the window's clasp, rubbing his fingertips against the metal in the process. Then he pushed open the glass and let the owl in, relieving it of its burden.

The owl hooted pitifully before Draco could unroll the parchment.

"Oh, fine. Hold on." He went over to his desk, where he had a tin of the finest owl treats money could buy, and tossed it a morsel. The owl snatched it up and flew out the window.

Finally alone, Draco opened the missive.

_Congratulations, Draco Malfoy!_

_Now that you have graduated from school, you have been selected to participate in the Game of Life!_

_This will be an amazing journey from start to finish as you face a variety of situations and discover yourself in your handling of them._

_There is no point system, and there are no competitors._

_All that matters is that you live to the fullest and really be yourself, as hard as you can._

_We at the Milton Bradley Company shall send you these notes from time to time, hinting at the challenges you will face next, but it is up to you how to handle them._

_Your hints for today:_

_Dragon trainer. Pet adoption._

_We wish you the best of luck._

_Cheers,_

_MBC_

_P.S. please do not attempt to contact us. We exist in another realm entirely. Your letters will return untouched._

Draco held up the note against the window and stared at it for a long time, his face illuminated by the parchment-filtered early morning sunlight.

What the fuck? What was the meaning of all this? Who the hell was the Milton Bradley Company?

And what kind of bloody hints were these?

He folded the parchment and placed it in a desk drawer.

Maybe this was just some strange anomaly, a glitch in the universe. It did not necessarily have to affect his life in the slightest. He was not the Chosen One, after all. No one chose him for anything. He was free to act in any way he wanted, as long as he stayed within the bounds of the law or was at least discreet.

He decided to get some breakfast and start his day. If something happened later on today to make the note relevant, he could always come back to it. For now, though, he was hungry, the hunger sharper than any he had felt before, and he was going to feed himself and savour every bite.

* * *

By evening, Draco had forgotten all about the ridiculous note. He was in a pub, sipping on a lager and listening to the people around him natter on about Quidditch scores and current events.

If his parents were not so shattered by the war, they would have probably objected to the fact that he liked to spend his nights here, drinking and listening and doing nothing productive, but as it was, they barely remembered he existed. In fact, his parents were exactly the reason why he frequented this pub, because he just could not stand their vacant stares at each other and at the walls. It was as if a Dementor had kissed the two of them—they barely knew they were alive.

Well, _Draco_ knew he was alive, and he was going to spend this awareness sipping on some alcohol, because at least here, no one gave a shit that he was Draco Malfoy. Here, he was just some blond bloke who drank quietly and didn't interrupt other people's conversations. It was very comforting to be nobody for once, to not be on anyone's agenda.

As he sipped and stared at the lovely selection of alcohol on the shelves behind the bartender, however, he suddenly felt the approach of a presence behind him, to his left. He had developed heightened senses during those terrifying years of the war, since surprise usually led to death.

He turned around and met a pair of blue eyes set in a heavily freckled face.

The man smiled. "Well, well, well. If it isn't a Malfoy. I think you must be Draco. I've heard a bit about you."

Draco took in the man's appearance, finally getting over the horror of all those freckles. He was short and thickset, wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscled arms. There was a burn scar on one of those arms, and the man's hands seemed to be calloused and blistered. Said arms and hands were covered in ginger hair, but not to the extent where the man looked like an ape or anything. Speaking of hair, the man had ridiculously long hair, and Draco wondered who allowed the man to leave the house sporting a _mullet_, of all things. Then again, the man somehow managed to make the mullet look natural, so he supposed he could forgive his keepers.

"I am sorry," Draco drawled. "I am afraid I cannot say the same about you. Who are you?"

The redhead grinned. "I'm Charles Weasley—you may call me Charlie. You went to school in the same year as my little brother, Ron."

Ah. A Weasley. Everything made sense now.

"I am surprised you're not spitting in my face, then. In case you haven't heard, the Weasley family isn't exactly fond of the Malfoy family, you know."

Weasley sat down on the barstool next to him, still grinning. "Well…I like to think of myself as Charlie first before thinking of myself as a Weasley. And Charlie has no problems with families in general—Charlie is more interested in individuals like himself."

Draco made a noncommittal sound in his throat. "Alright, but why is Charlie so interested in Draco, then?"

"Well…there's your name, for starters. Pardon me if my Latin is rusty, but doesn't _Draco_ mean _dragon_?"

Draco blinked, picking up his glass for another sip. "Yes. But why would that interest you?"

Weasley smirked. "I just happen to be a dragon trainer."

Draco felt a chill in his heart, as if he had pressed his drink against his chest. Normally, he would be wondering in horror whether or not a Weasley was actually _flirting_ with him, but all he could think was, _Dragon trainer_.

The note. The note came back to him, the note he had shoved into a desk drawer at home.

Was this it? Was this the beginning of the Game?

"Glass of ale, please," said Weasley pleasantly to the bartender. Apparently Draco had gaped at him long enough to lose his interest.

Draco grabbed his arm, absently noting that it was firm and warm.

"Yes?" Weasley brushed his hand off as if he were merely brushing off a leaf that had fallen on his skin during a walk through a garden.

"Are you saying you want to train me?"

Weasley raised an eyebrow. "Just because your name means 'dragon'? Seems a bit of a stretch, doesn't it?"

"It's not that great a stretch when you consider the way you were harping on about it."

The ale arrived, and Weasley snatched it up, bringing it to his lips and drinking it before deigning to answer. "I don't know, really. I suppose that sounds less silly than the real reason I've decided to sit next to you."

"I can handle silly, Weasley. Hell, I could use some silly, after all the seriousness of the past few years. What's the real reason?"

Weasley set the glass down and swivelled to face him, his eyes locking with Draco's.

"The moment I saw your pale hair and pasty skin, I felt this…compulsion. I cannot explain it. All I know is that for some reason, you are important. I have to sit down next to you and talk to you. I feel like I literally cannot continue on with my life without getting to know you, and with every word I speak, every second that passes, every glance I give you, I feel the compulsion grow stronger and stronger."

"Are you…attracted to me?" The word felt strange on his lips, because ever since the Dark Lord took up residence in his home, he had given up on the idea of attraction, thinking that no one could ever find him worth a second glance.

"No." The blunt reply curtailed Draco's thoughts. "I am not attracted to anyone. People find that hard to believe, of course, insisting that I _must_ be attracted to _someone_ out there, but I've just never felt that desire. My work is too important to me. Even my presence here in England is but temporary; I need to get back to Romania once I have finished this friendly family visit. I cannot have any attachment to anyone; I can't afford it, and that fact always kills the mood.

"But…I feel something about you. Something different. As if I was meant to guide you in a quest. Perhaps this is what Ron felt about Harry; I just don't know."

Draco swallowed, his dry throat reminding him that it was time for another sip of his lager. He brought the glass to his lips, his hand shaking slightly. Maybe it was the fact that he was drunk and all his muscles were relaxed, but everything felt so _heavy_ about this moment, as if each word that came out of Weasley's mouth had the power to determine his fate.

"And what will you do about this feeling?"

"Draco…do you have any obligations right now?"

He thought about it, casting his tipsy mind around and gathering the sparse details of his life right now. He did not have a job. He did not have a lover or any children. He did not have parents that really cared what he did, not in the mental state they were in. At the Manor, they had plenty of competent house-elves that could care for them, and crazier wizards and witches had been known to thrive on less.

And anyway, he was Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater. Who gave a shit what he did now?

"No. I have nothing."

Weasley reached out with his burly arms and gripped Draco's shoulders.

"Go home. Pack your things. Come back here quickly. I am going to take you along with me, and I am going to figure out what exactly I am meant to be to you and then _be _it. Today is my last night in England, anyway."

Draco should have torn himself out of the man's grasp and rejected the suggestion. He should have. That is exactly what the old Draco Malfoy would do, the one who was wounded and suspicious and constantly sneering. After all, wasn't this Weasley just another Gryffindor git? Wasn't this the part where he punched his face, regardless of his age?

Yet the note in his desk drawer kept coming back to him.

_All that matters is that you live to the fullest and really be yourself, as hard as you can._

And when else was he most himself, than when he was drunk? Being drunk didn't suddenly make you do stupid things out of nowhere. It didn't give you a new personality. All it did was strip away all the social rules and the insecurities and the fears, leaving you with nothing except what you know in your heart.

Draco's heart told him to follow this man. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. This man, Weasleyness notwithstanding, was somehow the first step.

No one was expecting him to do anything anymore. He was free.

"Alright, Weasley. Wait here, okay? I'll be back in half an hour at the most."

Weasley beamed at him. "Brilliant! Then we can go back to my flat in Romania."

* * *

Within hours, Draco was settling into his new home, the note in his pocket and his trunk floating behind him.

"Just place the trunk in the spare bedroom, mate. In fact, it's _your_ bedroom, now. I cleared it out before I left, actually. My old roommate was such a tosser."

Draco nodded and went inside, setting his trunk in front of the bed before collapsing on top of said bed, fully clothed except for his shoes, which he had taken off at the door, thank goodness.

It was the middle of the night. He was still a bit hazy from the drinks. He could not quite believe this rash decision to room with a Weasley in the middle of a foreign country, fuelled by nothing but the crazy sod's insistence on _compulsion_.

But this felt right. Draco breathed in the scent of newness, the freshness of the sheets beneath him. He glanced up at his new ceiling, and he didn't feel the need to sigh at it. He heard Weasley's footsteps as he paced his own bedroom, muttering words to himself about dragons and impulses, and the sound was actually comforting.

He rolled around on the bed, feeling his joints and muscles adjust and shift with his movements.

He was home in his body for the first time in his life.

* * *

The next several weeks were spent settling into a new routine.

Draco had not brought much with him—only some practical clothes, a cauldron, and some money. He had not felt sentimental enough to bring anything from home with him, since home was…complicated at best. Besides, it was not like he was permanently exiled from England. If he wished, he could always go home later and grab whatever he needed. Such was the strength of magic.

Weasley…well, might as well call him Charlie now, since there were too many damn Weasleys out there. Charlie had sobered up the next morning after the pub conversation, but although he did smile embarrassedly about the whole "compulsion" thing, he did not kick Draco out. In fact, he seemed all too happy to have Draco there.

Draco didn't understand at first. Why would a Weasley want someone like him in the house? Didn't he fear that one day Draco would just AK him and then run off with his limited gold?

But as they fell into a routine, Draco realised that Charlie needed him there. The man was always working hard, getting himself into all sorts of scrapes in his line of work, and Draco took care of the place when he was gone, keeping things tidy and even cooking.

The cooking had not gone so well at first. He had lived so long with house-elves that he did not know what all the apparatuses in the kitchen even _did_. Yet once he understood the functions of all the objects, he simply picked up some cookbooks and taught himself how to cook. When one got right down to it, cooking wasn't that different from potion brewing. It was all about the quality of the ingredients and the timing. There was more leeway when it came to cooking, of course, and one did have to rely more on instinct than on following instructions exactly, but once one cooked for a while, one got the hang of it, and Charlie certainly never complained.

Draco was glad he brought his cauldron, though, because he also had to do some actual brewing here. Charlie had shown him around the nearby village, pointing out the apothecary and the bookstore, and those two places were where Draco frequented the most. He still had no job and no idea what exactly he wanted to do here, but he passed the time brewing because he knew it was an activity that calmed him down. The precision and the concentration soothed his frazzled thought processes and kept him sane.

Besides, Charlie always seemed to need his healing potions. Draco didn't know how the prat had managed to survive this long without him. Every evening was spent force-feeding the necessary tonics down his throat and then force-feeding Draco's newest attempt at cooking.

It was a calm existence, one without any undue excitement despite the fact that he lived with a dragon trainer. He began to feel relaxed, yet this was an aware relaxation where he knew exactly who he was and where he was. It was surreal.

Then a little grey cat followed him home from one of his shopping trips in the village, and Draco finally remembered the note, the reason why he was here in the first place.

_Pet adoption_.

He picked up the kitten with his long, slender fingers, and it mewled pathetically. It looked beaten up and dirty, and its left ear had a bit of skin missing.

"Come on, little kitty. I think I can brew you something to fix you up. Thank goodness I bought that healing book for animals." He had bought the book with dragons in mind, but the enormous tome probably had a chapter on cats, too. It was good to have a source of knowledge for all emergencies.

As he poured newly-brewed potion into little bowl and placed it in front of the kitten, he decided to name it Chance.

Charlie had adored it when he came home that evening and saw it resting on Draco's lap.

"I guess I'm not the only one who picks up strays, eh?"

Draco stuck his tongue out at him, and he laughed.

It was comfortable, this feeling. Perhaps the reason why Charlie liked him so much was because he didn't have to fear Draco finding him attractive, since it was an undeniable fact that Draco would never find a Weasley attractive. Freckles and red hair just didn't do it for him. Charlie needed that lack of attraction for—as he had told him one night—the reason he had had to kick out the last roommate was because the bloke just kept making advances at him, and it had been getting awkward.

"I just don't need that in my life, you know?" he had grumbled. "You know what romance comes with? Possessiveness. And I am _not_ an object to be owned."

Draco had nodded. Even though he himself was not by any means asexual, he could see the man's point. Although Draco loved the idea of possessing and being possessed, fantasised about it, even, Charlie Weasley sought freedom from all attachment, like some sort of weird, freckled Buddha. He loved flying and he loved dragons, and that was it. Anything that tethered him to the ground was unwelcome.

Draco was glad that he was not interested in Charlie, and vice versa. Although it really was disturbing that he could feel _empathy_ for the guy.

He petted Chance's head, stroking his slightly coarse fur with the pads of his fingertips.

He wondered what the next event in the Game would be, if it would ever reach him.

For now, though, he had an appreciative roommate and a warm pet, and his whole past, all of it in its vivid, ugly detail, was thousands of miles away.


End file.
